Be Prepared To Do A Lot of Lying
by FollowedByImplosion
Summary: Tumblr prompt. Greg Lestrade hasn't done well after Sherlock's death- and things are about to get a whole lot worse. Greg Lestrade, be prepared to do a lot of lying.


_My name is Sasha and I'm a terrible person. Mainly because I made you suffer through all my other work. So I made you this instead. I hope you like it. I do. It's not too long and it's not too great but whatever. _

_Thank you to this person for the prompt! _

post/52502016225/i-was-watching-law-order-uk-and-o ut-comes-rupert

Greg Lestrade had, for the most part, been totally oblivious to it all. In fact, he hadn't known a thing- and perhaps it had played out better that way. It seemed to be a rule that you didn't question your brains, internal or external- especially if those brains came in the form of a rude, sociopathic genius with a government brother. And yet here he was, sitting on a moth eaten sofa with nothing to do.

He should have expected it, the aftermath. He had let him in, given him unrestricted access to anything- and then waited for the work to be done. He had consulted the man, taken all he said to heart and head, and come out at the end with a solved case and convicted criminal. But now the criminal was an uncertain element in the equation, what you solved for. Greg Lestrade now knew, or had at least been told, that he had been very, very wrong.

The dismissal had been a quick and sorry affair. After collecting what he owned and carrying the small box back to his place, he had only found the second worst thing to have occurred- an empty house and a note on the table. As of yet, Greg had yet to look; but he knew what it said already, and he knew that this time, she meant it. He was a disgrace, in every way possible. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, Greg held a very tiny amount of hope.

But that hope was fading. Sherlock would not be able to bail him out of this one, and there really was no one else. As if Anderson had the brains, or Donovan the heart. As if John Watson would so much as drag himself out of bed this morning, as if the poor landlady who looked after them would even remember that he existed. No. He was as bad as the very man who had started it, as bad as Sherlock Holmes.

Rumours had flown around the Yard as quickly as a pigeon away from the barrel of a gun. The papers had speculated, the civilians had talked. And now that it was simply a memory, a story in the back of their minds, Greg couldn't _not_ think about it. Greg it seemed was trapped, trapped in a cycle of blood on the pavement and a sinister grin. The drink had yet to kick in, the bottle not even half empty- and as he took a swing, Greg came to the very sudden and very horrible realisation that he was entering a dangerous routine.

But what could he do? No one cared, his last friends at the Yard having not spoken for weeks. Even _Dimmock_, for goodness sakes, hadn't made a sound. He had thought that Watson might, but no- the poor guy was probably sitting on his own special rooftop right now.

Somehow, the bitter taste and the foul smell weren't going to do it. Nothing was, and even if he drowned himself in liquor, Greg was sure as hell that nothing would happen. He could sit there for hours if he wanted, jobless and friendless- but nothing would ever _happen._ Not outside of his house, not even outside of his living room.

Or maybe it had. Maybe the bitter taste and the foul smell had done their duties to the kings of drink, had forced Greg to awake with a banging headache and terrible feeling in every part of his body. Maybe it had stopped the clocks altogether, had the television running and the bills hitting the floor with a dull thud of overdue and final warnings. Maybe the kings of drink had been kind in not yet poisoning his blood as well as his mind.

At least no one had thought yet to bother him. Yes, the phone would ring constantly, but did he really want to talk to the telemarketers or the bank? Did he really want to talk to any more heads of department, any more energy companies? Did anyone? Greg didn't, that he knew.

At least Sherlock Holmes could have gotten them off his case.

Greatest detective in the world, the universe- even if the guy didn't have a clue on how any of that worked. Best friend, but alone in his thoughts- no one could possibly understand the genius or the man behind it. Camera-shy, wary and stubborn. Oh, what Greg would have given to change his fate. At least the statements wouldn't come in so long, so hefty and so hard to pay. There was nothing to pay them with, in any case.

Government brother had texted. Shamed inspector had yet to formulate a coherent reply.

Bottle had slipped from his weak and uncaring grasp. Servant of the aged grape had yet to clean it or the cuts sustained from the break.

Brain had thundered on. Brain had switched off.

Quite honestly, Greg had no clue of what was happening. Or when. Or where. Just that he was going to sleep too frequently, waking up at strange times.

It was a vicious cycle. And yet such a reliving and relaxing one.

All your problems, drifting away with each shot. With each scrape and mumbled answer down the phone. With each cough, signalling depleting health.

They had come for him in the earliest of hours.

Greg had not expected it- but then again, he hadn't exactly been aware of their existence for a long time. So when his front door was slammed down and the officers thundered in, he had sat calmly on the sofa, and repeatedly asked who the hell they were.

Not that any of that went down well with the murder investigators.

And so Greg had found himself a prisoner of his own establishment. A prisoner of his old kingdom, a peasant amongst those he had once called his friends.

Oh, it was a sorry sight.

And even more so that he had no idea, no clue in the world, of how or where or why or when. Just that now, he was being asked to answer these questions. He had yet to use that one precious phone call, that one line that could save him- because after all, who could? Sherlock Holmes was gone, and along with him was Greg's memory, dignity and innocence.

Oh, what a pity.

"You gonna try again, mate?"

Greg glanced up- the same one every time, asking about that wretched call. He nodded, and allowed himself to be led to the phone but standing in front of the receiver, the tone ringing in his ears, Greg was blank.

Only this time, his finger slowly punched in a very familiar sequence of numbers. The numbers he had dialled when stuck for clues, when about to throttle his squad. The numbers that had given him a snarky response and an impatient tone. But a helping hand all the same.

"_What?"_

He almost dropped the phone. The voice was the very one that he had not dared hope to hear, the very one that he had needed. "You."

"_Me. You. Lestrade? Of course. What have you done? Wait, don't answer that. Please tell me that you aren't sitting in the very place that you've thrown people in for the very reason that you're speaking to me now?"_

"Maybe. I don't know. Where was I last night?"

"_Oh, I'm supposed to know? I'm sorry, the dead one? You were out of your mind and watching the worst thing for a brain that needs crucial development, that's where. On your sofa and half asleep."_

"Oh."

"_Give me a few days. Don't do anything stupid."_

And with that, the guy was gone.

Well, what did he really expect?

"Times up, pal."

Yeah, that he had expected. To sit alone and wait for the genius to figure something out.

Sadly, the genius had taken his time. Hearings and judges blabbered on, with their evidence and their guesses. What could Greg do? He had tried to tell them that he didn't know, neither her nor where he had been that night. He had tried to beg, to plead. He had surrendered every ounce of dignity remaining, even allowed himself to be taunted by the people who used to hold _some_ respect for him.

And there were no witty responses. There were no helping hands, no witnesses to call on. Just himself and a constant denial.

_Where were you? _I don't know.

_What were you doing? _I honestly can't remember.

_How drunk were you? _I can't put a figure on it.

Sorry.

_I don't know. I don't know her, I don't know where I was. I don't know what I was doing, how drunk I was, or why I'm even here. I don't know and I can't answer your questions. I can't call a witness because no one will talk to me. My only helper is dead and silent, with an empty promise. Please, give me another drink._

_And make it go away._

Oh, it was fuzzy. It was blurry and it was painful. They screamed and started and cried, of his guilt and of their fear. Reality or dream he had no clue, friend or foe he wasn't sure. Gone was the drink but back were the aches, the pains and the knowledge that even if he got out, Greg Lestrade would once again pick up the bottle.

"And do you call on any witnesses?"

"No."

_Just like last time._

"And this, your honour, is how you know he's given up. Because wouldn't a ruthless killer deny if with some insistency? Of course. So why, might I ask, is the man hanging his head and yet still saying no?"

Greg's neck almost snapped with the force that accompanied its rising. _He was here. _He had done it again, the stupid genius with too many tricks to be trusted.

And yet.

"My point exactly. Greg Lestrade, despite your insistences of his guilt, cannot be."

Did he just wink? Greg was sure he had winked.

They droned on, the judge to the detective, the detective to the judge, the jury to each other. And all were met with dead ends- no guilt, but innocence was far from present.

"Bail him."

Well, you couldn't deny- the brilliance had a talent for persuasion and annoying people so much that they_ had_ to do what he said. And so the hammer came down, they all shuffled out, and Greg was sat in a taxi, trundling its way out of the City.

Sherlock Holmes had taken residence in the East. Of London, that was- god forbid that I man like that get sand in his shoes.

"Shave. Brush your teeth. There's nothing toxic in here except for nicotine patches, and if you touch those I'll kill you." He faced Greg, nose to nose. "I need to think."

The next hours were eventful- Greg's shaking hands working a razor down and around his face, watching as Holmes lit a cigarette and let it smoke in a tray on the coffee table. He muttered and cursed, paced and jumped- and save for the occasional deep inhalation of the fumes, didn't even glance towards Greg.

"I would appreciate," he said, eyes anywhere but the space in front of him. "If you could keep this quiet."

Greg nodded- there was no way that anyone would listen anyway. "And you can do the same."

Holmes nodded. "Where were you, on the night-"

"_I don't know."_

"But you have to have an answer! Were you, Greg Lestrade, anywhere but your house on the night of the murder that you have been accused of?"

"No."

"And how can you prove it?"

"Because I was out of my mind and not even conscious."

"Good, so you can admit to the drinking. Who was she?"

"I. Don't. Know. Some girl that got killed."

"Do you know her?"

"I don't- No, I don't know her!"

"Did you, or have you ever, considered hurting or killing anyone for no apparent reason?"

But here Greg couldn't answer. Yeah, maybe he had. Since day one with the scrawny git to the very night that he had drunk himself into oblivion. Yeah, he had. A lot.

"I guess."

"Then, Greg Lestrade, be prepared to do a lot of lying."


End file.
